Requiem
by Eridala
Summary: A series of vignettes, differing perspectives on the death of Padmé Amidala. The truths we cling to depend very much on our own point of view...
1. Prologue

**Disclaimer: **_Star Wars_ belongs to George Lucas and Lucasfilm. The _Revenge of the Sith_ novel was written beautifully by Matthew Stover. I mean no infringement and make no profit.

**A/N:** This is the prologue to a series of vignettes which will consist of various people's perspectives and memories of the death of Padmé Amidala over time. For, as we know, often "the truths we cling to depend very much on our own point of view." The prologue, which is more or less written in the style of the _Revenge of the Sith_ novel, is Padmé's death from her own point of view. (A link to further details about my own perspective on the whole thing will be provided in my profile, in case you get confused.) Thanks to Marten for answering the call and beta-reading this for me.

**Requiem**

_"A most unspotted lily shall she pass  
To the ground, and all the world shall mourn her."  
_-William Shakespeare, _Henry V_

_**Prologue**_

This is the death of Padmé Amidala:

White lights glare down from the ceiling of the Polis Massan medical center, a glowing frame around the face of Obi-Wan Kenobi. She knows that he has been there for some time, but only occasionally is Padmé aware of him.

She is dying. She knows that, now. She fought it at first, but not anymore.

_I'm not afraid to die. I've been dying a little bit each day since you came back into my life._

He has killed her. Anakin, her Anakin, her love… has killed her. And it's strange how little that matters to her now. Around her neck is the japor snippet he'd carved for her so long ago _so you'll remember me_.

_It's beautiful. But I don't need this to remember you. Many things will change when we reach the capital, Ani. My caring for you will remain._

Pain grips her spine and wracks her entire body. Hadn't she and Jar Jar once had a conversation about pain? What was it they had said? _Mesa wonder sometimes why da Gods invent pain. To motivate us, I imagine._ She cannot help it, she screams.

"Anakin! Anakin, help me! Please!"

She has to have the baby now—her baby, and Anakin's. The baby she's wanted for so long, the baby she loves. _You die in childbirth. And the baby?_

"Obi-Wan…" She looks up at him. "Save the baby." She remembers what he has told her. "The babies. The twins. Look after them. Please." He doesn't understand. She has to force him to listen. "Obi-Wan, please, promise me…"

He does. _Obi-Wan is a great mentor—as wise as Master Yoda and as powerful as Master Windu_. And he loves Anakin. That is enough.

Padmé closes her eyes and, in between bursts of pain, lets her mind drift. She is watching her whole life, helpless, powerless to touch it as it slips away from her. She is in the lake country of Naboo _when there was nothing but our love_. She and Anakin are lying side by side in the meadow, they are safe, they are home, and the pain comes again and _I want to have our baby back home on Naboo. We can go to the Lake Country where no one will know. Where we can be safe…_

"I want to go home." She is crying. _Suddenly I'm afraid_. She feels so small, not strong enough, and like a lost little girl she sobs, "I want to go home…"

She should be home. Home, on Naboo, with her family. They worry about her so. _Have you even wondered what it might be like for you to settle down and concern yourself with those things that will make your own life fuller?_ they ask her all the time. They don't know where she is. They don't even know about the babies; they may never know, now. She wants to hear her mother's voice, so badly. "Mom…"

_You've done your service, Padmé_

"I want my mom."

"I know, Padmé." That is Bail Organa's voice. When did Bail come in? He sounds so sad. She opens her eyes and tries to smile at him.

"I'm sorry, Bail."

"Padmé…" She can see in his eyes that he wants to ask her questions she cannot answer.

"Remember, be a good little Senator. Save the Republic. You promised."

He nods, and makes his own attempt at a smile. "I remember. But…"

"How is your wife, Bail?" He looks confused at the question. "You told me once you wanted a baby girl." Her eyes start to close, her voice fades. "Anakin thinks it's a girl…"

Anakin.

_Anakin has turned to the dark side_.

But Anakin is just a little boy, _a pilot, you know. Someday, I'm gonna fly away from this place_. No, that was a long time ago; he is _a Jedi. I know I'm better than this_ and she kneels beside him and holds him as he cries that he's _killed them all, they're dead, every single one of them_. At the Temple—the younglings—the Jedi Temple is burning _you could see the smoke from here,_ and everything is burning_ you're breaking my heart you're going down a path I can't follow_ and there is fire in his eyes and pain…

She screams again.

_It would destroy us._

"Anakin… I love you…"

_Don't be afraid._

"Save your energy," Obi-Wan's voice speaks out of somewhere.

"Can't…"

"Don't give up, Padmé."

She has survived multiple assassination attempts and two fullscale battles, but this is harder… much harder.

"Is it… It's a girl. Anakin thinks it's a girl."

"We don't know yet. In a minute… you have to stay _with_ us."

_Have faith, my love. Everything will soon be set right._

Soon. The baby is coming.

"If it's… a girl—" She loses herself in the pain until Obi-Wan's voice calls her back.

"Padmé, you _have_ to hold on." The lights are so bright Obi-Wan's face seems in shadow, she can't focus, but she has to have the baby. She _has _to.

"If it's a girl… name her Leia…" Her hand grips Obi-Wan's, she closes her eyes, and then a cry breaks forth.

"It's a boy."

The lights aren't harsh anymore. They glow. Her baby is surrounded by soft light. "Luke…"

Obi-Wan holds him close to her; she cannot hold him, but she reaches out and gently strokes his cheek. There is not time or strength to say all she wants to: _you're beautiful, you're perfect, I'm so sorry my little son, but know that I love you and I always have and always will love you…_ So she tries to capture it all in that one gesture and the words, "Oh, Luke…"

His eyes briefly blink open and she sees in their brilliant blue depths the eyes of another boy, so long ago. _Are you sure about this? Trusting our fate to a boy we hardly know?_ He's so small, so helpless. _He can help you. He was meant to help you._

Then there is more pain and more screaming, taking more of her strength away. And another infant cry.

"It's a girl."

She looks up into wide, solemn brown eyes, looking straight back into hers, and so like her own that she wants to laugh, but can only manage a smile. _Are you an Angel?_ "Leia…"

Obi-Wan begs her to hold on, he tells her that her twins need her, but he doesn't understand. She has not the strength to explain it to him, what is so clear… and yet harder than anything she has ever done.

The twins need her to let go. It is that simple, and it is that complex. It is the only way to protect them. With her they would be chased and hunted down without cease, without fail, but _these are good people. You'll be safe here_. She does not know what tells her this, whether it is the Force, or her own heart, or both, but she knows it is right.

And that is why she _can_ let go, even though it hurts her worse than any pain she's ever known, even though she's only twenty-seven and she doesn't want to die. Even after all she has been, after she has done so much and all she wants to do is hold her babies and love them and take them home to Naboo and watch them grow up.

She can let go because she is Padmé Amidala, and she will do what she must. _That's what every mother needs for her child—to know that he, that you, have been given a chance at a better life_. She will let go for her children. And for Anakin.

And no one will ever know. This is Padmé Amidala's sacrifice.

_It's very cold_.

She wishes that just once they could all be together, that Anakin could see the babies.

"Anakin…"

The Force had brought her and Anakin together for a destiny greater than either of them, and these children would save him. _They're our only hope_.

"Anakin… isn't here, Padmé," Obi-Wan's voice speaks gently.

But he is alive. And she loves him. She doesn't want to leave him. She loves him and hopes for him still.

"Anakin, I'm sorry. I'm so sorry… Anakin, please, I _love_ you…"

Her fingers still clutch the snippet of japor he gave her as a little boy. So that she'd never forget him. And she never would.

_Before we die, I want you to know…_

She presses the japor snippet into Obi-Wan's hand, hoping he will understand.

_I truly, deeply love_...

She takes one more look at the beautiful babies she and Anakin have created, and sees how they shine in the dark. How could she not love the man who has given her these gifts, even if she only has them for a moment? How could she not love the man who changed her life, brought her to life, simply by loving her?

_I'm glad to have met you, Anakin_.

The Polis Massan medical center fades slowly into darkness. She focuses on the faces of Obi-Wan and the children.

"Obi-Wan…" she struggles for breath, "There is good in him. I know… there is… still…"

And then Padmé lets go.

And there is nothing but light.


	2. Bail Organa

**Disclaimer:** Star Wars belongs to George Lucas and Lucasfilm. I mean no infringement and make no profit.

**A/N: **This is the first vignette in my Requiem series. It is Bail Organa's perspective on Padmé's death. Thanks a million times to Marten for pushing me to make this as good as I could make it, and thank you to the kind people who reviewed the prologue.

When I think of this series, a quote by Terry Pratchett always comes to mind: "This is a story about memory. And this much can be remembered..."

_**Bail Organa**_

I watched her die.

She was my colleague, my friend, I admired her. I truly think she was the best of all of us. I knew her and worked with her for five years. We were allies inside the Senate and out. It is very rare to come across someone you can stand to be around in both spheres, but she was a very rare person. Most knew her as Amidala; I called her Padmé. I had thought that I would have her by my side, working to restore the Republic, lending support and sharing laughter, for years to come. Instead, on a lonely, isolated Outer Rim settlement, I watched her die.

When I first met her, she was twenty-two. In appearance, she could have been little more than a child. But in her eyes, in her voice, in her bearing, there was something that spoke of wisdom and maturity beyond her years. At that time I had never seen another person like her, ever.

I hadn't expected her to be the way she was. Perhaps that was why she made such an initial impression. I knew of her, of course. When I first heard the name "Amidala" mentioned in the Senate, I searched my memory and came up with a day, eight years previously, when the galaxy had witnessed the child Queen of a little-regarded planet stand up before all the members of the Senate and demand justice for her people. So perhaps I expected the elaborate costume and the studied accent of Naboo's Queen. But while all of that was gone, the articulate courage which had so impressed me years ago always remained. And, amazingly, so did much of the innocence, or perhaps I should say idealism of that young girl. I know there were times she doubted, but unlike so many others she never stopped trying to do what was right. It was a rare quality, and I tried to protect it over the years, when she would let me. And the most remarkable thing was that she never lost hope, despite everything, even though the galaxy was falling apart. She made me believe. She became my friend.

She shouldn't have died like that. She shouldn't have died so far from her home and her family. I know how much her home and her family meant to her. She shouldn't have had to die so young, she shouldn't have had to die with so much pain. To die at the hands of someone she loved… I cannot imagine anything worse. No one should die that way, least of all someone with so much left to do, to accomplish.

Even on the last day of her life, she was giving me hope. She saved our organization—our rebellion. Almost the last thing she said to me was to make me promise to vote for the Empire so that I could keep it going, even if it took twenty years to prepare. The depth of her understanding, her sharp mind, may yet save us all. She saved my life, that day, but I could not save hers.

I watched her die, and I couldn't believe what was happening. It was like a nightmare.

She knew it was going to happen. Somehow, she knew. She tried to tell me, but I still felt the shock, on top of countless other shocks I'd felt that day, when the message came from Obi-Wan Kenobi: that he had battled Skywalker, that Padmé was with him and she was hurt badly, Skywalker had tried to kill her and he thought she was having contractions. I had to have him repeat that last bit. I hadn't even know she was pregnant. I didn't completely believe him until he carried her down the starship ramp.

I watched her die. And I couldn't save her. Stars, I would have saved her if I could. I couldn't even comfort her. I could only watch, helpless, while hour after hour she screamed and cried.

I remember that I felt numb. I could scarcely feel my body at all, as though my soul had retreated somewhere deep inside myself. And from that deep place, my soul was screaming. All I was thinking was, _Not Padmé. Please, please, not Padmé._

I was praying to any god that would listen, but none answered. And when it was over, I was staring down at two small, pink, squirming, crying _things_. I did not reach out to them. I just stared, trying to make sense of what the very sight of them was making me feel.

There was some amazement, that these beings were Padmé's children, that they were part of Padmé. And yet they were nothing like her. I could see in them none of her beauty or her grace. I pitied them, vaguely because they were alone and so small, but more specifically because they would never know what they'd lost. They would never know their mother; they would not even have a memory of her. They would never see her face or know how she would have loved them. They wouldn't even know how great their early loss was, the greatness of the mother they should have had. Their father had taken all of that from them before they were even born.

But most of all I felt… anger, I suppose. Not precisely at them, but at the injustice of it all. Why were they alive, weak and imperfect, when she was dead and the galaxy needed her so? What good could they possibly be? They had only given her last hours more pain.

Then the infant girl, Padmé's daughter, looked up at me with Padmé's eyes. That was when I first wept.

It felt better than anything had felt in days. But no weeping lasts forever. I know she wouldn't want us to mourn.

She is gone now. So we will go on in her honor. We will wait as she advised, until one day we will be ready fight. We will go on to form the rebellion she helped to design.

I will go on, with this miracle she left behind. For I decided, then and there, that the baby girl Padmé named Leia would be the child Breha and I had talked of adopting. I gave her the middle name Amidala and made a promise—to Padmé, to the Jedi, to myself, and to Leia—that she would be safe and loved in my care. I will raise her to be a princess and a lover of justice. If she's anything like her mother, that won't be hard.

Of the two gifts Padmé has given me—the hope of the rebellion and the hope of the child—I believe already I love the child best. I will bring her home to Alderaan. I will watch her live and grow. She will be loved and protected all her life.

I promise, Padmé. And so now all I must do for you, and what is hardest to do, is say goodbye.

I loved you. I'll miss you.

Goodbye.


	3. Emperor Palpatine

**A/N:** I must apologize profusely for the delay in update. Such a lengthy one will not happen again; in fact, I hope to update rather quickly from here on. This chapter is going up un-beta'd, so be merciful. I edited it heavily myself, based on my own judgment, and decided it was ready to go when reading it gave me my usual angry reaction to Palpatine. Hopefully I wasn't just angry because the Emperor is so hard to write this way and to edit.

_**Emperor Palpatine**_

I regret that I will be unable to attend your funeral, my dear. Of course I will convey my deep unhappiness at being forced to miss it. I imagine it will be quite a spectacle—weeping throngs lining the streets of Theed, flags at half-staff, very solemn and lovely. But, sadly, business concerns will keep me away and, of course, I have no love for Naboo. I avoid it, when I can.

Finding your body shocked and frightened Bail Organa. I could sense it even through the holo transmission he sent. When he contacted me, he was already on the way to Naboo. I took it upon myself to alert Queen Apailana of your demise and your pregnancy both. The looks on the faces of the Queen and her Royal Council were a small reward to me, and brought great satisfaction.

I am to give an address on the HoloNet very soon, and the extent of my grief over you will be moving to see. I will call you my dear friend, recall how we worked together when you were Queen, say that you were a daring crusader for justice and an inspiration to all who knew you; I will even claim that you were like a daughter to me. My resolve to hunt down the Jedi will only be strengthened by the tragedy of your murder at their hands. And so, my dear, will everyone else's.

I know what I shall do, since I cannot attend your funeral. I will declare a galaxy-wide day of mourning for Senator Amidala, friend of the Emperor, ruthlessly cut down by the traitorous Jedi. Yes, there is delicious irony in that. I will make you into a regular little martyr for my Empire. You have no idea how you have earned that title, no idea of the delightful truth of it.

You naïve fool. I doubt that, even at the end, you understood the extent to which I had used you. I was able to make you jump into every web I spun, and you never knew how trapped you were. In fact, you became one of my favorite toys to play with. And, through all of those years, you never did learn the rules of the game. _That _is what made you weak, and _that_ is what made you fail.

Do you know, Amidala, you are one of the few people I have ever bothered to truly dislike?

Most beings I encounter are beneath my notice; they are not worthy of the attention required for true dislike. You, on the other hand, were different. While others could be easily brushed aside, you continued to surprise me, and I am not easily surprised. Your compassion, above all, I always found disgusting; your persistence was frustrating; your naivete bordered on the ridiculous. You were never worthy of hatred, but _dislike_ and _contempt_ you certainly earned.

I was like you once, Amidala. I thought I could fix the galaxy. I, too, was a naïve fool. But I soon realized what you did not: that people cannot be trusted, governments cannot be trusted, no, oneself alone is worthy of trust. You trusted the Republic, you trusted the Jedi, you trusted your darling husband. Your faith in the Republic and your faith in him were always your weaknesses. Once I knew that, I knew how you fit into my plan.

I endorsed you for Queen. You perfectly suited my purposes—young, inexperienced, easily coerced. You played into my hands splendidly. You were such a sympathetic figure calling for Valorum's impeachment; you ensured my election to Supreme Chancellor. And then you went home to be killed.

Only you were not killed, and your foolhardy battle set back my plans and cost me an apprentice. I was very angry with you, Amidala, for quite some time. I vowed then that you would be made to pay for what you had done. One day.

Patience is what has brought victory to the Sith. I know how to be patient. My anger does not cool over time.

During the time that I patiently waited, you grew into a nuisance, and the Trade Federation's grudge made your assassination at last a useful gesture. But it seems you still had a part to play, some usefulness I had not fully foreseen. For you had also grown into a beautiful young woman. Not my taste, but certainly young Skywalker's.

Your loss even then would have devastated him. When you failed to die, I brought the two of you together again as an experiment, knowing how he cared for you, knowing you would tempt him and that his feelings for you would cause him conflict and alienate him from the Jedi. I confess I had no idea that you would fall in love with him. You hardly seemed the type. It was a delightful surprise, above and beyond my expectations; no one could have been happier than I at the news of your wedding. I was later even more pleased at your pregnancy, and I do regret the loss of the child. There could have been some use for him. But no matter.

Suddenly, as Skywalker's wife, you were much more useful alive than dead. So I would let you live a while longer. I even protected you for a time, and laughed that you thought you were safe.

Know that I could have killed you at any time, Amidala. I chose to make you suffer before you died. I chose to make you suffer his fall. And, in the end, you provided the means of bringing that fall to pass. As surely as I foresaw your death, I knew that you would. You, above all others, have made him mine.

You made me Emperor. You made Anakin Skywalker into Darth Vader. None of it would have been possible without you. Pathetic as you were, you have been a great help to me. I thank you, from the bottom of my heart.

I will not smile when I announce your death. Not on the outside.

I do regret that I will be unable to attend your funeral, Amidala. I have been looking forward to it for quite some time.


	4. Sio Bibble

**A/N:** You have no idea how much your kind reviews mean to me. Thank you so much, especially for the two I got on my last chapter, which I was very nervous about. Please keep them coming.

_**Sio Bibble**_

We all stared at Palpatine's hologram in the middle of the throne room floor. It had been years since the man had communicated directly with us, with the Royal Council of Naboo. Not since he had been elected Chancellor. The fact that he would do so now immediately put me on alert.

The moment the transmission was announced, I felt not pleasure, not wonder, but dread. A creeping feeling of unmitigated dread. Something had happened. Matters were about to grow worse.

I wish I had not been so right.

We all stared at Palpatine's hologram. He looked bad. His reign as Chancellor had already aged him beyond his years, the scars from the recent attempt on his life were there now and, in addition to all of that, he was weighted by what we soon found was most intense grief. He faced the Queen, but she said nothing yet; despite the ceremonial makeup mean to make her appear impassive, it was easy to see that she was badly shaken by this. As was I. As were we all.

But I was the one to break the silence at last.

"Chancellor—Emperor, what are you talking about?"

"I am sorry, my old friend, and Your Highness, to present this news to you. You must know that I understand what you are feeling. But it is true. Padmé Amidala is dead. She was killed by Jedi. She was pregnant when she died. I will give you all the details I know so that you might inform her family, should you choose. Some of this, however, I strongly feel should not become public knowledge."

And then he told us how, from what he had been able to piece together, a Jedi who had so far escaped persecution on Coruscant had found her apartment, forced her to take him to her skiff and transport him off planet, killed her, sent a distress signal, landed on an Outer Rim world, stolen another ship, and left her there. The Senator from Alderaan had answered her ship's distress signal and found her, and was now bringing her body home to Naboo. He would arrive within hours.

I heard all of this, but comprehension was slow to come. My mind was reeling. I kept trying to picture Padmé Amidala as she'd been when I'd last seen her. But I couldn't do it. I couldn't even remember when that had been. Months ago, surely—there had been no sign of her being pregnant—but was it a meeting here in the throne room? At a charity benefit? I kept trying to pin it down, to get a clear picture of it in my mind, but all I kept seeing was her on the day of her coronation. She'd been so young then!

I'd opposed her vehemently at the beginning of her campaign because, like many others, I had been deceived by her youth. My stars, it's almost past believing now—I opposed that brilliant, wise girl! By the end of her campaign I was one of her strongest supporters. That was the sort of power that Padmé Amidala had over people. There was a time, during her reign as Queen, when I saw her more than I saw my own daughter, and probably knew her better, too. I cared for her like a daughter.

On her coronation day she'd been lavishly dressed and styled, but nonetheless she was positively beaming. That is how I first think of her, even now.

My stars, she was so young then!

My gods… she was so young still.

She had been fourteen when she was crowned Queen, and I had already been old. Now I was older still. She was only twenty-seven, and she was dead. She should have outlived me by decades!

My gods, half of her life had already been past on the day we first met.

Where was the sense in this? Where was the sense in any of it?

I was there when her body was taken off the Alderaanian ship and brought into Theed Palace for the last time. She was so still. That was when I finally, fully comprehended that she had been killed, that she was gone. A brilliant, bright light had gone out of the galaxy.

A light had gone out of me, as well. People always used to remark on how sharp I was, how active and animated I was at my age. I gave my life to serving the Naboo, and serving the Naboo gave me life. It was never the same, after that day. I was changed; I had lost a large part of the drive that had kept me going.

I heard the conflicts among the Naboo, afterward, the debates sparked by Amidala's death. Were the Jedi good or were they evil? Were they villains and murderers or were they wrongly accused? I participated a little, but my heart was not in it. I did not know which side of the argument I believed. It all suddenly seemed not to matter.

I had seen the galaxy's greatest heroine crowned a child Queen, and I had seen her die.

I had lived too long.


	5. Captain Panaka

**A/N: **Thank you for your continued kindness and reviews. I'm really so glad that you feel moved by this story. And, yeah, I really, really hate Palpatine, too (which is one of the reasons that chapter made me nervous-- I was afraid I couldn't make him evil enough). Here is another take on Padmé's death from the Queen's Head of Security, Captain Panaka.

_**Captain Panaka**_

I was among the first on Naboo to know what had happened. I will always remember that, and feel honored. I was standing beside the Queen—as always, by the Queen—when the Emperor's message came through. We, in the throne room, were the first to take a moment of silence, even if only because none of us could speak, for Padmé Naberrie Amidala.

I will always be proud of my conduct on that day. Truth be told, what I wanted to do more than anything was to sink to the floor, put my head in my hands, and give way to the grief that hit me like a blaster bolt to my chest. But I didn't. I stood tall. I stood by the Queen as she contacted my nephew on Coruscant to hear his account of what had taken place.

I had wanted to be angry with him, but realized that I couldn't be the moment I saw his face. He looked shattered. I had put him in charge of the Senator's security because he was the best, and I knew that, whatever had gone wrong, he was not to blame. We both knew Padmé Amidala very well, and I believed him when he said that she had forced him to leave her alone. Sometimes there came a point when you just had to stop arguing with her and trust that she knew what she was doing. I had taught him that. And she always had known, until now. So when words failed him, I stepped forward and said, "It's all right, Gregar. It's all right. There was nothing you could have done. Come home now."

The Queen sat still and silent for a moment, collecting herself. Then she said, "Someone must tell her family. Now, before the HoloNet gets word."

No one wanted that job. But I was the one who took it. "Your Highness, it should be me. They know me. I should go."

I took Dormé with me. Typho had already contacted her, and she was still one of the Senator's handmaidens, though she was on Naboo at that time. She, too, knew the Naberrie family. I stood by Dormé's side with my hat in my hand and knocked on the door.

Padmé's mother answered. She looked concerned the moment she saw us, and asked what had happened. I asked if we could come in, and then she looked alarmed. "What's happened to Padmé?" That was when her husband, Padmé's father, appeared behind her and said, quietly, "Jobal, let them come inside."

I told them. I told them their daughter had been killed. It was the worst thing I've ever had to do. I never want to do something like that again. I'll never forget the look on her father's face or the way her mother screamed. Never, as long as I live.

The time after that is a blur. Dormé asked them if they'd known their daughter was pregnant. They hadn't, which made it worse. Ruwee, her father, called her sister, who came at once. The sister, Sola, made me think of when Keili died and I had to take care of everything, including her son, despite the way my heart was breaking. Sola had her husband take her daughters out of school. There was a grandmother in Keren, and I volunteered to have some of my men to go get her, since they could circumvent traffic.

After that, Dormé sat with the parents and sister, and I was left to my own devices. It was agreed that we would wait at the house and not return to the Palace until it was all right to make the official announcement, so I had nothing to do but wait until the nieces got there. I began to wander from room to room, trying not to look at all of the holos showing Padmé, smiling.

She was my first Queen. She was the first Queen I served as head of security, and not just a Queen but a teenage girl whose parents depended on me to protect their daughter. I spent my days with her. I grew to know her very well, even to love her. She was, like my nephew, a responsibility which came to me and which I embraced as my concern. She was always special to me. I continued to look out for her, and see to it that she was safe, even years after I no longer had to. When I learned about the attempts on her life, I worried about her, and I worried about her no less when I heard about her wedding. That was why I informed the Chancellor about it. While I served Queen Jamillia, while I served Queen Apailana, I still looked in, now and again, on Padmé Amidala. Until today, when I found out that all I had done hadn't been enough.

While wandering around upstairs in the Naberrie house I found her bedroom. I'd never seen it before, but it was unmistakably hers. Little things indicating her presence were everywhere. Everything was very neat, although there were signs that just below the surface the closet and the dresser were crammed with clothes. There were her datapads, her knick-knacks, her childhood toys, the things she had deemed valuable over the years of her life. That was where it truly occurred to me that she would never be here again, with the people she loved, touching the things she loved.

At the same time, standing there in her room, it washed over me suddenly that I hadn't known this woman. Not nearly as well as I thought I had. I'd known Senator Amidala, the leader, always busy, always pushing my patience to the limit in little ways. Professional. Dignified. I had known the girl Padmé Naberrie a little, long ago, but I had never known the woman she had become. The woman who loved her family and her friends, who had hopes and desires and cares that she never let on to me, her head of security. There were holos all around me of the places she'd been, people she'd known and loved. I recognized one, taken only a few years ago perhaps, of the old group of handmaidens. No, I had not known the woman I had served for so many years. I hadn't known her at all. It pained more than anything else to know that now I never would.

And it angered me. I hated the Jedi who had done this, who had murdered her and taken from me the chance to know her. Only Jedi could have been capable of this, I knew. Only Jedi could have had the skill to get past Typho and then defeat her. They murdered her and they murdered her baby. While they were supposed to be protecting the galaxy, the Senate, the Senators… her.

On the desk there was a holo of her and Skywalker. His arms were around her as they smiled at one another. Skywalker, the Jedi she should never have married. The Jedi she should never have trusted. What if he had betrayed her? It made me feel sick. I turned quickly and left that room.

And as I did so, I made the vow that I would avenge her murder. A vow that I would help to defeat the Jedi who had done this in any way I could. I couldn't protect her anymore, I had failed to protect her, but I could protect others from dying the same way. I knew that was all I could do for her, and knew beyond doubt that it was what she would have wanted me to do.

Downstairs, I made a point of finding Dormé and suggesting that she contact the handmaidens before they heard what had happened some other way.


	6. Sola Naberrie

**A/N:** This was not an easy one. I felt compelled to do it, and I hope I got it at least close to right.

_**Sola Naberrie**_

You were my baby sister. I was supposed to look out for you. But you never needed looking after, did you?

I used to be so jealous of you, Padmé. You were always the smart one, the pretty one, the responsible one. You were a prodigy—how was I supposed to compete? I was pretty, but you were prettier. I was smart, but you were infinitely smarter. I was older, but you were more mature. I used to covet the attention everyone gave you. It wasn't ever easy for me, Padmé, being the sister of Queen Amidala, Senator Amidala, Padmé Amidala, the savior of her people.

But I always loved you. I loved you so much. You were my little sister, and I was so proud of you.

And later on, as we got older… I think I almost pitied you. Isn't that odd? A fairly simple woman living a mundane life feeling sorry for a _Queen_, a renowned Senator, a woman who supposedly had it all. I think, at that time, _you_ actually became jealous of _me_, little sister. I couldn't understand it at first—you, with your glamorous lifestyle, envying my normal life with my job and my husband and my little house. It wasn't until Ryoo was born that I started to realize: I was the lucky one. You wanted what I had; you wanted my house and my children and my little mundane life. And you should have had it. The gods know you deserved to have everything you wanted. But you could never quite get there, could you?

You almost had it. That's what makes his hurt so much worse—the fact that you almost had what we all hoped for you, that you were almost so happy. You were going to have a baby. And then this happened, and you never got to know the life you most wanted. It isn't fair. This isn't fair at all.

_Damn_ it, Padmé, why did you do this? How could you let this _happen_? You promised you'd be careful, that you wouldn't do anything stupid, that you wouldn't take any risks! You _promised_!

Why did you have to go and get yourself killed? Now, of all times?

You stupid, selfish girl. That's all I keep thinking. You fooled them all into thinking you were so smart, so compassionate, and then you went out and did _this_. You stupid, selfish girl. I know I should be sad. I know I should be mourning for you. I should be remembering all of the times we shared together and regretting all of the times we never will. But right now, I can't do any of that. Right now, I'm sitting here in front of your poor, empty body with Mom and Grandma and the women who are helping us prepare for the funeral in the morning, and all I can think of is how _angry_ I am with you.

I'm so angry with you, Padmé. You should see what you've done to Mom and Dad. You meant everything to them. They worried about you for years, and now you've made their worst nightmares come true. How could you do this? Mom can't stop crying and Dad walks around like he's lost, like a broken shell of himself. _You_ did that to them. I can't forgive you for it. I hug my little girls and pray that they never hurt me the way you have hurt us all.

You should have been more responsible. You should have been more careful. You were always the one who did everything right, who planned everything out! That was you! Not me! I shouldn't have to clean up the mess you've left behind.

But I'm the big sister. That's my job. I was supposed to look out for you, and the gods know I tried to. I nagged you about working too much. I teased you to keep you from taking yourself too seriously. I took your side when you told Mom and Dad you were married. I took you to the healer when you told me you thought you were pregnant. I promised not to say anything to Mom and Dad because you wanted to tell Anakin first. I believed you when you said you didn't need my help… so I guess I'm angry with myself, too.

You always said you didn't need anybody to look out for you. You never let anyone.

Except Anakin. And that's how I know he's dead now, too. If Anakin were alive, no one could have harmed you; he would have killed them first. He would never have let this happen.

_You_ shouldn't have let this happen. You should have been able to take care of yourself. You should have let us look out for you. You should have come to your family. I know you never thought anything of taking risks. This is your fault.

No, that's not fair. Someone killed you, and I don't believe it was the Jedi. I can't believe it, because I knew your Jedi friends. I hate the person who killed you, my baby sister. I want to know who that person is, and I'm angry with the galaxy that I might never find out.

But most of all, I am angry with you, Padmé. You put yourself in danger. You let yourself be killed. I _know_ you, I know you did. This didn't have to happen, you _let_ it happen. _Why did you do this?_

Damn it, you _promised_ me, Padmé!

Now you're lying here and you're so cold and still and yet so, so beautiful, and I'm here next to you because I'm your big sister. I love you.

I'm just so, so angry with you.

I'm starting to dread the time when I stop being angry and realize that I've lost you. That I'll never be able to see you or hug you or laugh with you or tease you… And I'll miss you. And then I'll start crying, and all the tears in the world will never be enough.


	7. Palo Niyar

**A/N: **Remember Palo, everybody? You know, "maybe he was the smart one"?

_**Palo Niyar**_

I ran.

I ran down the streets of Theed to my apartment, not regarding how I must have looked to others, not even noticing them. I ran until my sides hurt and I had to stop and gasp for breath on the sidewalk outside my building.

I was running home, but primarily I was running away from the Palace. I left my job there, I left my work as it was, and I ran away from the awful words I had heard whispered in the Palace corridor. I was running away from the horrible truth.

My wife, Jaia, looked up in alarm at my rushing in, out of breath, in the middle of the day. Under normal circumstances I would never have walked away from a job, especially not something so important as the job restoring the artwork in Theed Palace, which was not just a job, but an honor. But today was different. Today, I knew, no one would miss me there.

I shook my head as I caught my breath, and Jaia was silent. Finally, I spoke.

"Amidala is dead." The words sounded terrible, sounded wrong to my ears. I could see from Jaia's face that she didn't want to believe me, but there it was.

"Dead?" she whispered. "Are you sure?"

I nodded. Word was spreading like fire through the Palace. Someone who had been in the throne room when the message came from Coruscant told someone else, who told someone, and so on. First I saw a woman rush down the corridor past me, crying. Minutes later two men stopped a few feet from me to whisper, "Have you heard?" to one another and bow their heads. I stopped the next man to pass, and asked what was going on.

"Has no one told you yet? Amidala is dead."

And then I'd run home.

"It happened last night or this morning," I told Jaia. She collapsed into a chair. "They say they're bringing her body back to Theed now. By tomorrow—"

"How did she die?" she interrupted.

I took a breath. "She was murdered."

Jaia stared. "By whom? Who would do that?"

"I don't know."

I didn't know. That was what had me so confused and upset. I couldn't imagine who would ever want to kill Padmé Naberrie. Senator Amidala, well, she was a politician, and politicians were known for making people angry. But I had known Padmé Naberrie, and she was the sweetest girl I ever met.

When I was in my early teens, my parents made me join the Legislative Youth Program because they wanted me to be a politician like Dad. Padmé Naberrie had joined when she was eight or nine because she really _wanted_ to be in politics. That amazed me, and she seemed equally amazed that I really wanted to be an artist.

We were both pretty good, although she was always better, and we got paired together a lot in debate. I sort of knew she had a crush on me, and one day, after she'd won us a particularly difficult match, we were walking down the hallways laughing and celebrating, and she looked so happy and pretty that I kissed her.

I'd never seen somebody look so surprised in my life. She told me later it was her first kiss. I was fourteen then, and she was twelve, and for a month we walked around holding hands and doing the cute, innocent things that pass for "dating" at that age. What broke us up was that she left the Program to run for office.

"That's stupid," I said when she told me. "Padmé, you've got your whole life ahead of you."

She said, "Palo, I think that if you really want to do something, you should do it. I want to help people, and I'm going to. And I think that if you really want to be an artist, you should get out of this program and _do_ it. I know you can." She smiled. "Then someday I'll have you do my portrait."

A couple of years later I did get out of the Program, and I did become an artist, much to my parents' chagrin. Padmé became Princess Amidala, then Queen Amidala, then Senator Amidala. One day I got a holo from her saying she'd seen and loved an exhibit of mine in Theed, and that we should have lunch sometime. She got me the Theed Palace job.

But we never did have lunch, because before she came to Naboo again, somebody killed her. As the reports started to come in over the HoloNet, reports about Jedi and treachery, I shut myself in the bedroom and tried to fathom how somebody could have killed Padmé Naberrie, the girl who went into politics because she really just wanted to help people.

I couldn't listen to the HoloNet, because all they were talking about was Senator Amidala, and I wanted to mourn Padmé Naberrie. I didn't know Senator Amidala. Padmé Naberrie was half of the famous Niyar and Naberrie debate team, the girl I gave her first kiss, the girl I'd never get to have lunch with. I'd never even done her portrait.

Right then, hardly thinking about what I was doing, I got out my paints, and I got out my canvas, and, working from memory, I painted her. But I didn't paint Senator Amidala. I painted a twelve-year-old girl named Padmé, frozen in a moment, about to get her first kiss, with her whole life ahead of her, pretty and laughing, forever.


	8. Queen Apailana

**A/N: **For this chapter, I have combined what are technically two characters: Dashé Borreno, mentioned in some peripheral circa-AOTC story as a young girl in the Legislatvie Youth Program hailed as the next Amidala, and Queen Apailana, the young successor to Queen Jamillia of Naboo. Based on what I've been able to fined, they're pretty much the same age and, come on, they're totally the same person.

I want to thank everybody who has reviewed this series, especially those who reviewed after the last chapter. Especially to EpisodeSkywalker, who appparently got through the whole thing in one go last time-- yes, of course I remember that part of the end of the ROTS novel. I also read it over and over again. The first time I read it I just sat and stared at it for a few minutes; it was so touching and perfect and true. I also hate Palpatine. And, yes, there will be an Anakin chapter-- sort of... more like "AniVader"... but I'm saving him for near to the end. I think a couple of people have asked about that.

_**Dashé Borreno Apailana**_

One foot in front of the other. That's the only way I'm going to get though this day. One step at a time, head held high, like a Queen. Like the Queen I am.

Today, at sunrise, I will walk in the funeral procession of Padmé Naberrie Amidala. I will do this because I am the Queen, and I must. And as I walk past, the people of Naboo will see their ruler—cool and aloof and detached—performing her most solemn obligation. What they will not see—what I will not let them see—is that I'm also a thirteen-year-old girl, and I'm afraid, and I'm more alone than I've ever been.

Amidala was the Queen of Naboo when I was born. She was fourteen, and had just defeated the Trade Federation invasion. She was a legend to me my whole life—Amidala, the youngest Queen elected in over a hundred years. I wanted nothing more than to be just like her. The Naboo wanted it, too, which is a large part of why they elected me their Queen when I was even younger than Amidala had been—a new child Queen to be the next Amidala and lead us to peace. Then I learned the other part of it: no time alone, no time to be young, nothing is private, and nothing is sacred.

She was the only one who ever understood. She was really the only one who could, because she had been there. She knew that I couldn't be Queen Apailana all the time. She knew some things had to be private. Outside of our official duties, she called me Dashé, not as a sign of disrespect, but as a sign of sympathy. We seldom met face to face, we seldom really spoke, but we were bonded through common experience. Padmé Amidala was my friend. She had to face all that came with being the ruler of a planet alone, but I never did, because I had her. Until today.

The funeral ceremony begins in only an hour. I have dismissed my handmaidens and am sitting in front of a mirror, staring at my own reflection. I am not wearing the Queen's traditional makeup. I wear the robes, the deep, muted colors for mourning, but not the makeup. Not yet.

My thoughts inevitably drift back to the day of my coronation, not so very long ago. _She_ applied my makeup that day, in accordance with the protocol that it should be done by a former Queen. I can close my eyes and picture it; I can hear her reciting the ceremonial words as she touched the brush to my lips: _This is the scar of remembrance_…

And I open my eyes to find that I'm crying. Once more I want to turn to Padmé Amidala and say, as I did that day, "I can't. I'm not you. I can't do it."

But though she is not here, I can hear her answer, the answer she gave as she placed her hands on my shoulders and looked into my eyes.

"_Yes, you can. Because you must. Your people chose you. You have a duty to them now. It won't be easy, and it is not fair, but you will find the strength within yourself. You'll find that you will do it, because you have to. I have faith in you, Dashé_."

Like an automaton I reach for the white base and begin to apply it to my face. Today, one step at a time, I will walk in the funeral procession of Padmé Amidala, my friend, because it is my duty. And after that… after that, I will have to reign alone. Because I must.

What am I going to do? She has left me with the Republic fallen apart, an Empire rising, and the collapse of faith in all that we believed. What would she have me do?

The Emperor, once Palpatine of Naboo, tells me that the Jedi killed Amidala. And I find that, despite his long friendship with Padmé, his Naboo origins, and his public support, I don't believe him. I don't believe him simply because, the last time I spoke to Padmé Amidala, immediately after the declaration of the Empire, I asked her if she believed the Jedi had rebelled, had tried to kill Palpatine. She looked so tired, and like her mind was somewhere else. But when I asked her if she believed that the Jedi had done these things, she focused, and for a moment looked like herself, and said, "No, I don't. I don't believe it."

So why would they want to kill her? No, it doesn't make sense. I can't believe what the Emperor has told me. But, then, what do I believe? I don't know. I'm almost afraid to think about it, afraid of the answers I might find. My people chose me; I have a duty to them. But how am I supposed to lead them when I don't know any longer where the truth lies?

A small brush creates two dots, one on each cheek, perfectly even, for symmetry and balance.

The last time I spoke to Padmé Amidala, she said, "Your Highness, know that I fear for us. This is no longer the Republic I swore to serve. But it comforts me to know that Naboo is there, as beautiful as it has always been. Please keep Naboo beautiful, and keep it safe."

That is my duty. That is what I must do. No matter what chaos reigns outside, I must see that Naboo remains Naboo. I must always do what I believe to be right. This is how the Queen of Naboo leads her people, from Queen Elsinoré to Queen Amidala, Queen Jamillia, and now… me.

I touch the makeup brush to my lips—one bright line bisecting my lower lip: the scar of remembrance.

I am one more in a long line of Queens. I must not shame them. I must not shame Padmé's memory. The Queens of Naboo have always stood for truth and peace. It is possible that I must soon choose between truth and peace, just as Amidala once did. But if there is a way to have both of them, it is my duty to find that way.

I know all of this, but I cannot think about it anymore. At this moment, as a Queen stares back at me from the mirror, all of these duties seem an eternity away. At this moment my concern is this day. Today my duty above all is to Padmé. I cannot give myself to the grief I feel, or the doubt. I must be as a Queen giving tribute to another Queen, and the Senator who served me. I must not think about Padmé today, and I must not think about Dashé. Instead, Apailana will follow the casket of Amidala as she is taken to her final rest. It won't be easy, and it is not fair, but I will find the strength within myself.

Finally the makeup brush traces the tracks of my tears down each cheek, and above each eye the line stretches like a scar. The mark of one Queen mourning another.

And I am ready.

I am ready despite the doubts and the fears and the questions ringing inside my head. My face shows only calm, the regal countenance of the Queen.

A Queen does what she knows to be right. A Queen serves her people, no matter what the personal consequences. The woman we mourn today is proof enough of that.

Yet there have been a few things Dashé has been able to do for her friend. The procession will be Naboo history, but the funeral will be for family and friends. And there will be no investigation of her pregnancy, because some things are private. I owe her at least that much.

I ask myself now, could I do what she did? Could I risk my life in the service of this world I love and the ideals I believe?

I could, because it is my duty. She taught me that.


	9. Sabé Kylia

A/N: It's been a very long time, but hopefully I still have some readers for this series, because I have finished it. All that needs to happen is editing and posting, which should be fairly regular from here on out. My apologies for the long delay, and thanks for all of your kindness to me so far. This one is from the perspective of Sabé, the decoy handmaiden.

_**Sabé Aguilae Kylia**_

She was gone. There could be no doubt of that any longer, no more wild hope held secret and deep within the heart that it was not her, that there had been some mistake. There she was, lying in state, awaiting the funeral procession that would lead her, at last, to rest. Or rather, there was her body, a cold and empty form, but it no longer held her within. She was gone.

_And I wasn't even there._

I was once Padmé Naberrie Amidala's handmaiden, her decoy, her loyal bodyguard. That's what she called me: "my loyal bodyguard." We both wore the makeup and the headdress and the costume of the Queen, and we complained to each other about how uncomfortable it was. Except that she underwent that discomfort in the service of the Naboo, and I underwent that discomfort in the service of _her_. Whenever I put on that disguise, I knew that I could die for her, and I would readily have done so. It was my job to protect her, and more than my job.

But to tell the truth, she was never the heroine to me that she was to everybody else. How could she be? I knew her far too well for that. We were teenaged girls together. There was a time when, ceremonial makeup or no, I could read every expression on her face, decipher every tone of her voice, and read the thought behind every word she said. Nearly always I knew what she would say almost before she did. I had been inside her head and knew the way she thought, what she felt, her secrets, her fears, her problems; I knew exactly what she needed to make her feel better and, most times, she knew the same about me. I was her best friend, and she was mine.

It was the job that forced us together this way, but a closeness like that can never completely disappear. I left her service, began working for Captain Panaka and Sio Bibble, married, had a child, but our friendship remained. Perhaps that's why we spoke so little in the last months of her life—I felt hurt about it at the time, but of course—I knew her too well. I would have been able to tell that something… She didn't tell me she was pregnant, but I couldn't be angry about that because at least I knew who that baby's father was. She told me she loved Anakin Skywalker; she couldn't hide it from me. I was her best friend. And I couldn't help but think that I could have stopped all this somehow, if only she'd talked to me, if only I'd known.

The handmaiden mentality never disappears, either. I kept thinking, I should at least have been there. I should have been there to save her—to die for her, or to see her die. I should have been there to embrace her, to cry with her, to put up her hair. I should have been there to comfort her, like she comforted Cordé on the Coruscant landing platform. Cordé and Versé did die in her place that day, just as any of us would have done. And had not done.

The handmaidens knew what had happened before almost anyone else. Dormé commed me first, from Padmé's parents' house, then Rabé and Yané, who commed Eirtaé and Saché… I was out in the garden and I collapsed onto a bench. I didn't believe it could be true. After all the close shaves we'd had, I never actually thought it could end like this. I was her decoy, her shadow, and it felt like a part of _myself_ had been ripped away.…

She was my best friend. All of Naboo mourned her, crying and moaning in the streets because she was such a good leader and there was so much she might still have done. I saw this, and I still don't quite understand it. They didn't even _know_ her.

I'd lost my best friend.

I knelt before the body of my best friend and prayed and wept. I was one of the few people even allowed into this private funeral ceremony. There were Padmé's family—her poor parents, her grandmother, her sister and the little nieces whom she had adored. Bail Organa and a few Senators who had known her personally. Sio Bibble, Captain Panaka, Boss Nass and Jar Jar Binks. And her handmaidens. We had all been invited, and we all came. We would always come when Padmé called. Not because she was our Queen or our Senator, but because she was Padmé.

Padmé Naberrie Amidala loved her handmaidens. But we all failed her in the end. We weren't there when she needed us most. I let my eyes drift up to the altar again and wished, for the sake of Naboo, that it was me up there. Me in her place. Me as a decoy. To shield her, in that one last act—yes, even that was preferable to this. And I was all the more miserable because I knew Padmé would hate me to be thinking this, would tell me I was wrong. I had parents, a husband, a baby son… But I didn't have the ability to single-handedly save a planet. Only she had that. Only she had that stupid, selfless devotion to Naboo. Millions loved her for it, and still she died alone.

I should have been there, but I wasn't, and she died alone—my best friend.

I should have been there. I couldn't stop thinking it. One by one I met the eyes of each of them—Rabé, Eirtaé, Yané, Saché, Dormé, Ellé, Moteé—and knew they were each thinking the same. We were handmaidens. This was our job.

Of course I knew that I didn't work for her anymore, it wasn't my job anymore… but that didn't matter. It didn't matter for any of us. We could not stop being Padmé's handmaidens.

She was gone. Without her… what were we to do?


	10. Captain Typho

**A/N: **Thank you so much to everybody who reviewed the last chapter and added me to their story alerts! That was so much more feedback than I was expecting! Please, keep it coming!

I'll be updating a couple more times this week, hopefully, because I'll be on vacation all next week and unable to update at all. This is poor Captain Typho's chapter. At first I was mad at Padmé, actually, for putting Typho in a position where he would almost certainly get fired, but then I realized that she had arranged it so that, if he did what she told him, without realizing it, he would be saving his job. I built this off of that and the fact that we don't see him at the funeral.

_**Captain Gregar Typho**_

All of Naboo, it seems, is at the funeral now. The streets here, on the outskirts, are utterly dark, utterly silent. For the first time since it happened, I am alone with my thoughts.

I don't want to think—my thoughts are no comfort to me, they are full of pain, they are full of her. But I won't go, with everyone else, to her funeral.

I _can't_ go to her funeral.

I can't. I can't mourn publicly with everyone else. My grief is different from theirs, a different thing entirely. It's my fault. I was trusted, and I failed. It's my fault she's dead, almost as surely as if I'd killed her myself.

How can I face her family, knowing that? I could barely face my uncle, when I saw him, I could barely face Dormé. How can I face an entire planet of people, every one of them crying for her? Many of them, no doubt, wondering what her security was doing when somebody snuck in and murdered her? I've wondered that, too. Here, alone, I have to face myself, and in ways that's just as hard as facing everyone else.

I would have died for her when I was sixteen. I was in the Junior Palace Guard, she was the new fourteen-year-old Queen, and I was swept up in her campaign for reform, just like all the rest of the planet. Every time I saw her, I thought, "she's _my_ age." I would have refused to admit it then, but it can't have been coincidence that that I joined the Guards at the same time as she was elected. No, it wasn't just that she was a pretty girl—Amidala made the young Naboo believe that they could _accomplish_ something.

Then, when she came back from Coruscant and fought for us… I lost my eye in the Battle of Naboo, and I was glad to make that small sacrifice for Naboo, of course—but more than anything I did it for her. She fought for us, and so I fought my hardest for her, and when she came to visit me while I was recovering… She floored me. She was _my_ age—younger—she was a kid, but she was stronger and wiser than I was. She had me under her spell from that moment. I worshipped her.

It took me years to figure out that she was a person, not an idol. I was never quite comfortable with that fact. Working in her service, I saw her good and bad moods, her Senate moods and her private moods, I saw her with her hair down, her makeup off. I argued with her to no end because she seemed to think that nothing could actually kill her, but because she was Amidala she often won. I chased her around like she was a badly-behaved child. But still, when it came down to it, she was still Amidala to me, and I never _really_ believed anything could kill her, either.

Uncle Panaka says it's not my fault. So does Dormé. They don't understand. I could have stopped her. I could have dragged her away from that skiff, if all else failed. I should have said… there are a million things I should have said. I should have gone with her. She was trusted to _my_ care.

I didn't trust that Jedi when she married him; I could have killed him for letting her go through with it, but there's one thing I'll say for him: _he_ could have talked her out of going. But then, he was the one she was going to meet. Skywalker and I came to an understanding, eventually, because we'd both proved that we would have died for her. Maybe he actually did. Lucky him.

I _know_ a Jedi didn't kill her. I know more than almost anyone else about her activities in her last few days. She was championing the Jedi when most of the Senators wouldn't. The one she distrusted was Palpatine. What she and the group she met with were working against was the Empire. Why would the Jedi kill their greatest ally? And why would the Emperor leave his most vocal opponent alive, when others in that group suddenly started turning up dead? But most of all I know the Jedi didn't kill her because I watched her get onto that skiff, of her own free will, with only the droid (I let her take a _droid_ for protection!), to see her husband and the father of her child.

The ironic thing is, while I was failing to protect her, she was protecting me, and I didn't even realize it. A sleepless night, an anxious morning went by, and then the call came, and the first thing they asked was, "Do you know where Senator Amidala is?" And because almost the last words she'd spoken to me were, _This is a _personal_ errand. And it must remain personal. You know nothing of my leaving, nor where I am bound, nor when I can be expected to return, _I answered, "No. She retired to rest yesterday evening, and I have not seen her since." She knew what might happen, and she did not want me to suffer for it. They told me she was dead, and only later did I understand—she made sure I would give a safe answer because she didn't want me to get fired. As though I still want this job! As though I can still be trusted to do it! As though all I was protecting did not die with her, all through my own fault, my own negligence!

It's too much to be expected of me. I can't even bring myself to go to her funeral. I'm hiding here, in the dark, away from the people who still trust me even though I let her die.

The last thing I told her was that I disagreed with her decision, and she smiled a little and said, "I'll be fine, Captain," just like a thousand times before, and her strength and vulnerability at once floored me, just as always. Then she turned, walked up the ramp, and was gone. If I had known I'd never see her again… I can't bear to see her now, in her casket, looking like a statue for the throngs to worship and weep over. I can't face that, I can't face _her_ knowing I did it.

She didn't want me to hide. But what did she want? How do I go on living with myself when scarcely a day will go by for the rest of my life when I do not think that I should have protected her better? What should I do anything _for, _now?

In the dark and the silence it comes to me: for her, still. For her memory—protect _that_. Help the Jedi, like she did. Fight the Empire, like she did. Quietly let them know that what Palpatine said about her death is nothing but lies. Then I won't have failed until the galaxy has forgotten who she really was.


	11. Jar Jar Binks

**A/N: **I didn't want to do this chapter, really. But the more I thought about it, the more I realized it needed to be here. It was important to get the Gungan perspective in. It's a short chapter, though, because of everybody I'm covering, it seems like Jar Jar's feelings would be the most simple, even kind of childlike. The next chapter as it stands is forever long, and I'm really not looking forward to editing it, but I will try to get it up Friday, because it's the best stopping place before the weeklong break while I'm on vacation.

_**Jar Jar Binks**_

'Tis a dark day, a sad day. 'Tis Padmé's funeral day, and mesa missing her, because she was my friend. Mesa not having many friends, and shesa was my friend for a long time. She was the first Naboo person who was ever kind to me, ever.

She was the first of the Naboo to be friends with any of the Gungans, and that made her a friend to all of the Gungans. Shesa even got the Boss Nass to like her. Hesa called her Queen Amidoll, which fit her, because she looked like a human doll with all of the Queen makeup on. In fact, Boss Nass never liked a Queen so much as her—he still calls her that. The Boss is very sad today, too. Very, very sad.

Just as many Gungans are mourning Padmé today as Naboo. Theysa crying just like the Naboo are. Ask any Gungan to say a nice thing about the Naboo, they might not want to do it; but ask them to say something nice about Padmé Amidoll, probably they won't know how to stop. "Shesa good," mesa hear them say all the time. "Shesa a good person, friend to the Gungans." Theysa ask me, is she really so good in person? And my say yes. Always.

The Naboo and the Gungans are friends now because of her. Now shesa gone, the Gungans are worried about what's gonna happen to them next, very worried. Shesa got us to be allies, all by herself. Shesa say I helped, but mesa not sure how. And shesa got Boss Nass to like _mesa_, too, which looked even _more_ impossible. She changed my life.

She changed the _world_. Lots of folks say they want to change the world, but shesa really _did_ it. And the whole time she never stopped being my friend. Most of the time, mesa not knowing what mesa doing in the Senate, but shesa helped me learn. She had faith in mesa. She was the first of the Naboo _or_ the Gungans to do that.

Mesa owe her _everything_.

Now mesa missing Obi and Ani-- and mesa not sue what to think, when theysa saying the Jedi killed Padmé. The Jedi always seemed very nice. If Padmé was here, shesa would be explaining it... Mesa missing Padmé the most.

Mesa missing her very much. Mesa miss making her laugh, and her making mesa feel better about things. Mesa wonder what to do, when she can't help anymore. Once mesa asking her why she thinks the Gods invtented pain. Mesa always remember, she said, "To motivate us."

So even though it hurts me that shesa gone, mesa gonna be motivated. Mesa gonna do what my think is right. Mesa gonna ask myself, "What would Padmé do?"

Then everything's gonna be okey-day. It's _got_ to be.


	12. The Naboo

**A/N:** This will be my last chapter for a while, since I'm leaving for vacation today. It's about four times as long as a normal Requiem chapter; I don't know why I didn't see that coming, considering it has four times the perspective. This is the death of Amidala from the perspective of the Naboo-- four Naboo characters I've made up. I think I've made it about as good as I can now, and I hope you like it. I also want to thank everyone for your kind feedback on the Jar Jar chapter-- that was a really nice surprise.

_**The Naboo**_

_Cam Deskali:_

I was one of the first to know what had happened. I saw it come off the wire, direct from the Palace to us at HoloNet News Naboo. I was always the one monitoring this kind of thing, grabbing the stories, proofing, screening, and fact-checking—they called me "the Desk" Deskali. I saw the story come through to us before anybody else, and for a solid two, three minutes, I just held it in my hand and stared at it, read it over and over and waited for it to make sense. I can still remember those first few lines exactly:

"Padmé Naberrie, Senator Amidala of Naboo, died this morning on Polis Massa. Initial evidence indicates that her death was the result of an attack by Jedi. An official statement from the Palace is forthcoming. We ask that the media be respectful of the Senator's family."

Suddenly I felt hollow, the noise faded away, and I was sure I was dreaming. Because Amidala couldn't be dead. Other Senators could be killed by Jedi, but _our _Senator… our Amidala? No. This was wrong. Any minute something would come through saying it was wrong. But nothing did.

Someone, I can't remember who, came up to me—I must have looked shocked, just standing there holding that report—and asked what was up.

"Padmé Amidala's dead." Saying it out loud somehow made it real, and I felt myself wake up, and as the guy who'd approached me said, "_What_?", I was already pushing past him, heading for the news desk, where the beautiful Sila Orilaan was in the middle of a story about the Jedi Rebellion.

"Break!" I shouted, then remembered where I was and whispered, "Cut it. Right now." The director looked at me like I was crazy, but I held up the report and said, "Amidala's dead," and he gave Sila the order to segue out.

I handed the report over to her, said, "Just in." Sila barely had time to read it before we were back on. She blinked, dazed, for a moment, then drew a breath and said it.

"Breaking news. Padmé Naberrie Amidala, Senator and former Queen of Naboo, died this morning on Polis Massa as the result of an apparent attack by Jedi. She was twenty-seven years old."

She started blinking again, because she was trying not to cry.

_Varé Jotira:_

I was sitting at my desk at work, and my friend Mina commed me from her place in accounting. Her voice sounded strange.

"Have you seen it?"

"Seen what?"

"Turn to the HoloNet."

So I did. They were talking about Amidala and at first I wondered why—what had she gotten up to now? I even started to ask Mina; then I saw headline splayed across the screen and, and the picture with the dates under it. The room spun.

I gasped out, "Oh, my gods…"

"I know," Mina said. She was crying, that was the strangeness in her voice. I could feel tears coming into my own eyes.

"What's going on?" asked Lon, at the next desk.

"Turn to the HoloNet."

_Balen Winar:_

I didn't know anything about it until later in the day—a few hours after the story broke. Our farm is pretty isolated, and I was out in the fields until lunchtime. Kallé was out in the garden, and came in about the same time. It was a beautiful day, mild, with clouds coming in and a chance of rain later. I hadn't taken a break so that I could get everything done before it hit.

I turned on the news, just like every day, and froze in front of the screen. Kallé looked up from the kitchen. You could tell that they were in the middle of something serious, but it took a couple of minutes for what it was to sink in. I swore and Kallé covered her mouth.

The next minute we were both sitting, huddled together, watching. Nothing else got done that day, we didn't even eat our lunch until two hours later. I kept thinking, "Her poor family." And I wanted my kids to come home.

_Ami Barana:_

I was at school. We were just finishing a test when the teacher from across the hall came in and whispered in Mrs. Palia's ear. We all looked up as she gasped, "_Ai Shiraya!_" Her eyes went wide and the color drained from her face. "_Né, u Maiavala, né…_" She and the other teacher went out into the hallway. We looked around at each other, with startled expressions, but we didn't say anything in case Mrs. Palia was about to come back, which she did, a couple of minutes later. We tried to finish our tests and not look at Mrs. Pallia's head bent over her desk.

When the last test had been handed in, Mrs. Palia stood up and said, in a quiet voice, "There will be an announcement from the principal shortly, but I feel it is incumbent on me to inform you…" her voice broke, "that Padmé Amidala was killed this morning."

I'll never forget that moment, that first moment when it didn't seem like it could be real. Everybody started talking at once, in muted voices, all questions. Mrs. Palia turned on the HoloNet for us, and we all fell silent to watch.

_Cam Deskali_:

What I remember most about the rest of the day was how quiet it was, like people were afraid to talk too loudly. Our offices were usually loud but now, when we were working twice as hard as usual, things were eerily quiet. Sila stayed on-air for hours. Everywhere else on the planet, places were closing early, but at HNN Naboo, nobody was going home.

We broadcast a statement from the Queen, and another particularly moving one from the Emperor himself. The fact that the Senator's death was unexpected meant that we had to cobble a tribute of sorts together fast—"Use that stuff we had from when we thought she'd been killed a few years ago! You know, that attack on Coruscant, right before the Wars!" "If you don't know where it is, _find_ it, and tag some stuff on at the end!"

"No, nothing with Skywalker! You want to show her with a _Jedi_? _Now_?"

I spent hours going through clips of a young, smiling Queen; a Queen in tears after the Battle of Naboo; a beautiful, confident Senator; a young woman playing and working with underprivileged children… A whole lifetime of service.

I came away from it certain of one thing: that woman had _style_. She knew how to work a crowd. Not even the we, the media, were immune—we might have been more susceptible than anyone else.

"What do you _mean_ the Palace won't let us film them taking her body off the ship? The people need to see it—she was _ours_!"

_Varé Jotira_:

The office closed, probably because no one was getting any work done, but when I got home I just felt lonely and exhausted. I don't know why, but it felt _personal_. Padmé Amidala's murder. Not just for me, for all of the Naboo. We felt like we'd watched her grow up and, besides, she was the Queen who saved us. Everyone felt like they knew her.

She loved Naboo, too, everyone knew that. Every holiday she came home to Naboo, and there was always someone excited to say they'd seen her ship coming in to land. Now we were watching the skies one last time, waiting for a foreign ship to bring her home. She should at least have died on Naboo. She shouldn't have died so _young_; we should have been able to watch her grow old as well as grow up. This wasn't fair.

Frustrated and angry, I turned the HoloNet off.

_Balen Winar_:

By the time the kids did get home, it was raining—a steady, heavy rain, like the planet itself was in mourning for its beloved Amidala. It wouldn't surprise me if it was—the Naberries, her family, were mountain farmers, the knew the land of Naboo. That was something I always liked about Padmé Amidala, she was really just a farmer's daughter, like my wife and my daughter, like anyone you might find way out here. And she never lost touch with us way out here, either. I never met her myself, but she came out to the rural areas all the time. She _helped_ people, she wasn't like most politicians you'd find. Most of those on Coruscant are all out for themselves. I even thought that about Emperor Palpatine sometimes, but not now; he was a true friend to her, and right all along. Still, I doubt we'll see _her_ like again.

It was such a waste. And her poor parents, farmers like me, had lost their daughter. That was tragedy enough.

_Ami Barana:_

The school let us out an hour early. Some teachers made us try to work, but we couldn't think; in most classes we just watched the news. Our history teacher was in awe. "This is a day you'll remember forever," he told us. "This is what happens at the end of an age. You'll never see something like this again."

It amazed me, walking home, that everything seemed just the same as every other day, that life was just going on.

I couldn't remember a time when Padmé Amidala hadn't been famous. I was thirteen years old; I'd been born just two months after the Blockade Crisis. My mother, pregnant with her first child, had been imprisoned in one of the detention camps until the Queen came back and liberated us, and when I was born Mom named me Amidala. I grew up hearing her insist that the Queen for whom I was named had saved both our lives. I liked that, even if I didn't like that there were lots of other girls my age named "Amidala" and "Padmé." It made me feel a little special.

I always took an interest in Padmé Amidala for that reason. From about the age of twelve, when we started to study her in class, I knew I could never have done what she did. Still, I always thought I'd like to meet her someday. Now I was almost the age she had been when she saved my life, and she was dead.

_Cam Deskali:_

The whole world had gone crazy. While some of us kept up a back and forth argument with the Palace about how much access we'd be allowed, others began to cover the crowds. The crowds were a story unto themselves. There were people hysterical in the streets. Already there were scores of flowers and candles being placed in front of Theed Palace. "_Allé, Ragela_," some of the people were saying, "_Allé Ragela Amidala, mamasi den kylaa Elsinoreé, ami den Nabooé_." Hail Queen Amidala, mother of the children of Elsinoré, beloved of the Naboo.

There had never been an outpouring like this that I'd seen for _anyone_, and I thought, My stars, who _was_ this woman? She'll be made a goddess, just because people want to believe she's immortal!

_Varé Jotira_:

I didn't realize _why_ I was angry, truly, until my husband came home with the children. He turned the coverage back on, and asked, "Does it make sense to you? Can you believe any of it?" What he meant was the idea that the Jedi had killed her. He and I had met at the university in Theed, and we'd both been to the Victory Parade after the Battle of Naboo, and we'd always remember the Jedi as heroes. How one of them had been honored equally with our fallen. How _impressive_ they had looked, lined up all together with their impassive faces.

And thinking of the Battle made me think of how the Amidala _I_ knew had been a champion of democracy her whole life, but now Palpatine was calling her one of the greatest supporters of his Empire which, whatever else it might be, was _not_ a democracy. No, none of it made sense, absolutely none of it. I didn't know what to make of that, then. It wasn't a day for being cynical.

My husband continued looking thoughtful. "Do you want to go to Theed? To the funeral? We'll have to leave tonight, but… it'll be good for the kids, won't it? To see something historic?"

I didn't hesitate.

_Balen Winar_:

I wanted whoever had done this to her—to us—to suffer for it. I was glad, fiercely glad, that the Empire was hunting down the Jedi. I'd have done it myself if I hadn't been too old, with a wife and children and a farm to look after. She fought for us, and the Naboo should fight back for her. I'd send my son to serve this new Empire and Palpatine.

Whatever I might have thought of him before, our Emperor Palpatine was doing Naboo proud now.

It wouldn't be possible for us to make it to the funeral the next morning; the question was never even raised. We did go to the vigil in the village, and we didn't sleep much before we got up to watch the coverage again.

_Ami Barana:_

My mother was a mess. There was no question about it: we were going to the funeral. We got up well before even the promise of dawn, and still we couldn't get anywhere near the head of the route. I had to comfort my mother the whole way, even though I didn't really know what to day. There _wasn't_ anything to say. Nobody truly understood what had happened yet. I had hoped to wake up that morning and find that it had all been a dream.

The galaxy had changed from a Republic to an Empire, and we would always remember it in these terms: one day Amidala was there, fighting as always for her people, and the next day she'd been murdered. She wasn't supposed to die like this. This was the first time in my life that Queen Amidala (and we still thought of her as our Queen) had failed the Naboo.

_Cam Deskali_:

Padmé Amidala's funeral was like nothing I'd ever seen. I was sent to cover it with Sila for the entire HoloNet. Overnight, Theed had been draped in mourning colors, and people crowded the entire processional route, holding candles. I had to marvel at it—in one day, the route had been planned and secured, the decorations hung, the flowers and tomb had been readied (we'd do a story later about the stonecutter who'd wept as he stayed up all night to carve it), and all for this one person.

"This had to be a complete nightmare for a whole lot of people," I said.

Sila looked up from the informational data she'd assembled for her commentary on the people who'd be attending the funeral. "You mean like Ruwee and Jobal Naberrie, aged 58 and 56?"

I was an idiot. "Yeah," I said.

We had to climb to a special viewing platform near the front of the Palace to get a good view of the body. Then she appeared, in a gualaar-pulled open casket. Sila grabbed my arm and covered here microphone.

"_Shirayamé_!" she exclained. "She's _really pregnant_!" It was true, there was no denying it. We'd been warned about this just before we'd mounted our platform, but we didn't know it'd be so _visible_. My jaw had dropped. "What do I do?" Sila hissed. "Do I say something? Do I talk about it?"

I looked at her, and then I looked at Amidala's parents down below—Ruwee and Jobal Naberrie, aged 58 and 56. "Not now," I said. "Not today." She nodded and went on with the statement we'd been given by the Palace—yes, she'd been pregnant, it increased the tragedy, in accordance with Naboo tradition there would be no investigation.

Later we'd cover it, of course—the famous Senator's secret pregnancy. We named several different candidates as to the father. But not that day. _That_ day we gave back to her.

_Varé Jotira:_

The funeral procession was the exact converse of the Victory Parade I'd witnessed so many years ago. That had taken place on a beautiful day, in bright sunlight, with colors and music and every last person cheering. This was in the half-light of dawn, and everything was dark and muted and utterly silent. It felt good to be in the crowd, all of us unified in some way by our grief. There was not a sound to be heard save the occasional sob, or child's voice followed by its parent's hushing, and then the approaching footsteps of the procession.

And Padmé Amidala herself, no longer the girl-Queen I once saw from a distance. This was the form of a woman—a _pregnant_ woman—who lay as though asleep. She looked like she was made of porcelain. My husband was holding my youngest daughter on his shoulders to see her pass.

I'd heard rumors that she was pregnant. It was so sad. After all that we'd each felt like we'd known Padmé Amidala, here was clear evidence that we were wrong; she'd had a secret life of her own. We hadn't known her at all, not any one of us. And it was strange that this only made us love her more.

_Balen Winar:_

We watched the broadcast of the funeral from our home. All of the people looked so small and faraway. The broadcaster said that Amidala had been pregnant, but you could hardly tell through the holovision. I just thought again, her poor, poor parents. There was a shot of them in close-up as they walked past. They looked awful.

They pointed out her sister and nieces, the Queen and Governor Bibble, all of Amidala's former handmaidens, Representative Binks and Boss Nass of the Gungans. They mentioned several Senators who came, just to inform the viewer that our little planet really was quite the center of attention. But the parents were at the front of the procession, right behind their daughter, where they belonged.

Padmé Amidala was a good Naboo girl.

_Ami Barana:_

It was uncomfortable, standing so close to so many people. My legs started to hurt after a while, and my candle dripped wax onto my fingers despite the holder meant to prevent this. I kept holding it, though, for Senator Amidala. While people muttered about the fact that she'd been pregnant, I watched the flame dance back and forth in the breeze and hoped my hardest that it wouldn't go out. It was sad that she'd died pregnant, of course, but at the time it didn't seem that important to me. My focus was on my candle.

Then the procession appeared in the distance, and all the talking stopped. Padmé Amidala was traveling, for the last time, through the Triumphal Arch in Palace Plaza. And then she was being brought by us. I saw her, in person, for the first time.

I was named after Padmé Amidala. She saved my life before I was born. I was always going to meet her someday.

Then she was past us, disappearing in the distance. She'd left us.

She'd left us once before when we needed her, when she ran the Trade Federation blockade and some thought she'd abandoned her people, but she had returned, like an avenging goddess, to save them in their hour of need.

Only this time, there would be no triumphant return. This time, when we needed her, she'd left us and she wasn't coming back.

In the early morning light the procession finally passed us by, and I stood staring and my candle and thinking, with growing dread:

_Amidala is dead. Amidala, the savior of her people. _

_Who will help us now?_


	13. Beru Lars

**A/N**: I'm back! Thank you so much for your continued reviews. Now we jump forward in time a bit-- we are no longer in the immediate aftermath of Padmé's death, or looking back on that time. This is Beru in the interval betwene the PT and the OT.

_**Beru Lars**_

I only ever met her once. She came into my life very suddenly, bringing with her all the glamour of another world. I hadn't known that creatures so elegant really existed; she was so far removed from everything I had ever seen.

We did not meet under the best of circumstances—I was so worried about Shmi, and she was so worried about Anakin. Yet she was kind to me. She answered my questions about her world as though there was no difference in the lives we led. I never suspected that she was, as I found out later, a Senator in the Republic, and once the Queen of her planet. She arrived at the side of the Jedi whom she desperately loved, and she married him in secret. She was like the heroine of a fairy tale to me; I was a desert girl, not ambitious, content with her quiet life. Two days after her arrival, just as suddenly as she had come, she left. I never saw her again.

Now, when Luke asks me about his mother, I wish I knew more. Owen doesn't think it prudent to speak to Kenobi to ask, not even about something so innocent as that. And of what little I do know, there is so much I can tell Luke nothing about.

I tell him only what I can, with little details my imagination has colored in for him: _Her name was Padmé. She was very beautiful, like a queen in a fairytale, and very brave, and very kind. She came from a planet where everything was green and lovely. She loved your father desperately, and she loved you, Luke, more than life itself. _I don't know if this last is true, but how could it not be?

Luke loves these stories I tell him. When I finish he is always begging for more, but I have no more to give.

A secret part of me is glad of that.

I know it is wrong to be jealous of a ghost. I now that I shouldn't be glad I can't tell Luke any more about the woman who bore him. But I also know I can't help it.

I love Luke like he's my own son, and I envy her that she gave birth to him and I didn't. I wish that I could claim Luke as wholly mine and be his mother in fact as well as feeling. I wish I didn't have to share him with this distant memory of beauty.

And I can't help but feel that if she turned up alive tomorrow and he had to choose between us, I would not be his choice. He will never be content with Tatooine, he fantasizes about going away. And he would be enamored with that quality of grace I remember in her which I will never have.

But then other times I think that, wherever she is, beyond this life, she must envy me the chance to raise her son. To hold him and teach him and watch him grow. That is all mine. And then I think how lucky I am, to have been given this gift, this chance. She has given me Luke, and I cannot be anything other than grateful for that.

I have a picture of her that I found in a HoloNet article. There are two or three old pictures of Anakin that once belonged to Shmi, but I only have one of her. Owen doesn't know I have it. I cannot show it to Luke now, and if he ever found it he would only ask why I have this old article on Senator Amidala. But someday, when he is old enough, he can know the truth, and then I will have this for him, this one small gift. I will give him his mother.

_That_ is how much I love him.

And the more I know I love him, the more I feel I have to say… Thank you, Padmé. Thank you for giving Luke to me.

Thank you for our son.


	14. Leia Organa

**A/N:** This is Leia's perspective when she's about twelve. I could almost have done two separate chapters from Leia's POV-- one on her mother, and one on Padmé Amidala. I opted not to, because combining them into one would at the same time explain why she never realized that the Senator she admired and the mother she could just remember were the same person-- she thought it was a trick of the mind. That said, I try to dwell more on the "mother" memory, because Leia has more emotion wrapped up in that.

_**Leia Amidala Organa**_

I've always known that my parents—Bail and Breha Organa of Alderaan, I mean—aren't my real parents. I think I knew it even before they told me. It didn't matter much. In my heart, Bail and Breha Organa are my father and mother—they raised me and loved me and made me who I am—just as Alderaan is my true home. The happiest moments of my earliest childhood were in Alderaan's mountains and fields, and in the Palace in Aldera.

But before that… I have memories. They are of another time and place, blurred and vivid at the same time. Just flashes, really, images—feelings.

I remember my mother.

My father—Bail, I mean; I can't remember any other father—says this is impossible. I was only minutes old when she died, I could not possibly remember that. When I told him that I did anyway, he didn't believe me at first, and then when I started to describe the visions in my mind, he very sharply told me to forget about them. That was one of the very few times Dad has ever been sharp with me. He apologized later, but still insisted that I was thinking of someone else, some other person. I know I wasn't. I know with every bit of my soul.

I remember my mother. And every time I do, it makes me want to cry; it's a strange kind of memory that floods my whole body with senses and emotions. I see a beautiful woman. I'm looking at her and she's looking at me. Her eyes look like mine. I can't describe the features, quite—only that she is beautiful, and it's not a strictly external beauty. She is radiating kindness, gentleness… love. And sadness, a sadness so great that it fills and colors everything else, so profound that the weight of it has broken her heart. I think she is crying. I hate that in the only memory I have of my mother, she is crying. What could have made her so sad? Was it because she had to die and leave me?

I remember my mother, even if I don't know how. Maybe even in my infancy I felt the intensity of that moment, and I knew that something so very important _had_ to be remembered. I don't know much of anything for sure, but I know the effect this has had on me—the questions gone unanswered, the image of the woman who gave birth to me haunting my mind—_she_ has made me what I am, too. For better or worse.

I never asked much about my mother, I never mentioned my memories of her until after Mama died. I didn't want her to think I loved her any less. Afterward, when I told Dad, he snapped at me, and it made me angry, partly out of confusion and partly because before then I had thought that he hadn't even known who my mother was, and now I knew he was keeping from me what I had a right to know. When I confronted him about it, he said I was right. He said he would tell me what he could:

She was twenty-seven years old and indeed beautiful. Her husband (my father) had recently been killed in the Clone Wars. I was born early. She fell or something and was hurt, and the healers had to work quickly or we would both have died. Dad was there. He said she tried her hardest, and was very brave. But she did die. And I didn't.

Her name was Padmé, a common name, Dad said, on Naboo, where she lived. It was also the first name of Naboo's Senator Amidala, a heroine of mine and an old friend of Dad's, who died the day I was born; he gave me the middle name Amidala in honor of her.

One of the only other times Dad was sharp with me, in fact, was when I questioned that decision. I'd just come across her name for the first time in my history studies, which referenced her as one of Palpatine's greatest supporters from the time when, as Queen, she had caused him to be elected Chancellor. I had to ask: "How do you know she wasn't on his side all along?"

He'd gotten very angry. He'd actually _shouted_ at me. "Padmé Amidala was a good and brilliant young woman! None of what happened is her fault—_you_, Leia, of all people, are _not_ to believe what Imperial propaganda will tell you about her!" I was stunned and hurt, though I couldn't understand what I'd done wrong. He softened at once and soothed me, and by and by explained that it was not a matter of sides back then—no one could guess what Palpatine would become. Amidala was a very young leader (like I was becoming) who was desperately trying to save her people. She was afraid, but she bravely did what she thought was right—always. She spoke out against Palpatine at the end, and she was the reason the Rebellion was alive today. In time, I idolized Amidala (if she could do so much, so young, then so can I), and I was proud to bear her name.

I found out then, as Dad told me about my birth, that he had found Senator Amidala dead himself, and had himself brought her body home to Naboo. And there he had found my mother and me. So it's no wonder, really, that since then my mother and Padmé Amidala have become so associated in my mind. Those features of my mother's face which are indistinct in memory now resemble Amidala's when I try to force them into clarity.

Dad says he has told me all he can about my mother, which I realize is not the same as all he knows. He tells me that she was just a woman who lived a shorter time than she should have and left him a beautiful daughter. He tells me not to dwell on the past. But this does not stop me from hoping that someday, when I'm older, he will tell me more.

I know that most of my questions can never be answered. I know I will probably never know what brought tears to my mother's eyes as she was dying, and whether I was any comfort to her at all. But I do know, now, that I am an Alderaani princess who was born on Naboo, and thinking that this was the Emperor's home planet makes me shudder, but thinking that it was Amidala's makes me not ashamed at all.

I remember my mother. I know the name of the face that haunts my memories. I feel that I have always been loved. For now, I suppose, that's enough.


End file.
